Poem of the day

Pied Beauty
by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)

Glory be to God for dappled things—
⁠      For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
⁠            For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim:
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
⁠      Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
⁠            And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
⁠      Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
⁠            With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
⁠                              Praise him.

Views: 43

Poem of the day

Hohenlinden
by Thomas Campbell (1777-1844)

On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

And redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden’s hills of blood-stained snow,
And darker yet shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Ah! few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.

Views: 72

Poem of the day

Mia Ĝardeno
by Wiktor Elski (1893-1956)
because today is Esperanto Day

En la ĝardeno de miaj revoj
La diversforma kreskas floraro,
Apude bluas senlima maro,
Super ĝi flugas blanketaj mevoj.

De miaj revoj en la ĝardeno
Karaj trezoroj troviĝas ĉie,
La supermara stelo radie
Lumigas florojn. For de ĉagreno,

De l’ homamaso mi iras ĉiam
Mian ĝardenon kaj mia staro
Komence estas ĉe l’ bord’ de l’ maro
Kie mi revas aŭ ploras tiam.

Penso forkuras en malproksimon,
Ĉar maro finon havas nenian,
Okul’ serĉante la celon ian
Vane rigardas de l’ mar’ senlimon.

Poste mi iras tra l’ voj’ ĝardena,
Kie kreskadas diversaj floroj:
Unuj, ĝi estas mortintaj koroj
Kun mi batintaj dum vivo pena.

Ĉe unu floro kaptas min flamo,
Okul’ larmiĝas ĉe la alia,
Ĉe l’ flor’ velkinta—la amo mia
Revenas penson, unua amo.

En la angulo plejfreŝa floro
Kreskas gracia, alta lilio.
Sur ĝi neĝblanka ĉiu folio,
En la kaliko larm’ de l’ doloro.

Tiu lilio simbol’ plejvera,
Lasta ĝi venis ĝardenon mian,
En la animon la harmonian
Pacigon donis lili’ mistera.

En tiu regno mia festeno,
Sent’ tie spiras el ĉiu floro,
El ĉiu fluas rava odoro
De miaj revoj en la ĝardeno.

Post ĉiutagaj malaltaj devoj,
Trovas konsolon mi forkurante
Kaj repaciĝon, per pens’ migrante
En la ĝardeno de miaj revoj.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

A Farewell to Arms
by George Peele (1556-1596)

My golden locks Time hath to silver turnd.
O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing!
My youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurnd,
But spurnd in vain. Youth waneith by increasing.
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen,
Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

My Helmet now shall make a hive for bees
And lovers’ sonnets turne to holy Psalms.
A man at Armes must now serve on his knees,
And feed on pray’rs, that are Age his alms.
But though from Court to Cottage I depart,
My Saint is sure of mine unspotted heart.

And when I saddest sits in homely cell,
I’ll teach my Swaines this Carrol for a song.
Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereigne well,
Curs’d be the souls that thinke her any wrong.
Goddess, vouchsafe this aged man his right
To be your Beadsman now that was your knight.

Views: 53

Poem of the day

The God Called Poetry
by Robert Graves (1895-1985)

Now I begin to know at last,
These nights when I sit down to rhyme,
The form and measure of that vast
God we call Poetry, he who stoops
And leaps me through his paper hoops
A little higher every time.

Tempts me to think I’ll grow a proper
Singing cricket or grass-hopper
Making prodigious jumps in air
While shaken crowds about me stare
Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder
To fly up on my master’s shoulder
Rustling the thick strands of his hair.

He is older than the seas,
Older than the plains and hills,
And older than the light that spills
From the sun’s hot wheel on these.
He wakes the gale that tears your trees,
He sings to you from window sills.

At you he roars, or he will coo,
He shouts and screams when hell is hot,
Riding on the shell and shot.
He smites you down, he succours you,
And where you seek him, he is not.

To-day I see he has two heads
Like Janus—calm, benignant, this;
That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads
From chin to chin; this god has power
Immeasurable at every hour:
He first taught lovers how to kiss,
He brings down sunshine after shower,
Thunder and hate are his also,
He is Yes and he is No.

The black beard spoke and said to me,
“Human frailty though you be,
Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh!
They’ll obey you in the end:
Hill and field, river and marsh
Shall obey you, hop and skip
At the terrour of your whip,
To your gales of anger bend.”

The pale beard spoke and said in turn
“True: a prize goes to the stern,
But sing and laugh and easily run
Through the wide airs of my plain,
Bathe in my waters, drink my sun,
And draw my creatures with soft song;
They shall follow you along
Graciously with no doubt or pain.”

Then speaking from his double head
The glorious fearful monster said
“I am Yes and I am No,
Black as pitch and white as snow,
Love me, hate me, reconcile
Hate with love, perfect with vile,
So equal justice shall be done
And life shared between moon and sun.
Nature for you shall curse or smile:
A poet you shall be, my son.”

Views: 39

Poem of the day

Ode to Psyche
by John Keats (1795-1821)

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
      By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
      Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
Surely I dreamt today, or did I see
      The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
      And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
      In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
      Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
                  A brooklet, scarce espied:

’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
      Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
      Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;
      Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
      At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
                  The winged boy I knew;
      But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
                  His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
      Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phoebe’s sapphire-regioned star,
      Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
                  Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
                  Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
      From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
      Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
      Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
      Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired
      From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
      Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
                  Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
      From swinged censer teeming;
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
      Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
      In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
      Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
      Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
      The moss-lain dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain,
      With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
      Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
      That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
      To let the warm Love in!

Views: 36

Poem of the day

Venus of the Louvre
by Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)

Down the long hall she glistens like a star,
The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone,
Yet none the less immortal, breathing on.
Time’s brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar.
When first the enthralled enchantress from afar
Dazzled mine eyes, I saw not her alone,
Serenely poised on her world-worshipped throne,
As when she guided once her dove-drawn car,—
But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew,
Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love.
Here Heine wept! Here still he weeps anew,
Nor ever shall his shadow lift or move,
While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain,
For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.

Views: 37

Poem of the day

Answer to Chloe Jealous
by Matthew Prior (1664-1721)

Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled.
Prithee, quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e’en talk a little like folks of this world.

How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:
More ordinary eyes may serve people for weeping.

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ
Your judgement at once and my passion you wrong:
You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit:
’Od’s life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt Nature and Art:
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.

The God of us verse-men, you know, child, the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest:
If at morning o’er Earth ’tis his fancy to run,
At night he reclines on his Thetis’s breast.

So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.

Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her
As he was a poet sublimer than me.

Views: 54

Poem of the day

Caissa, or The Game at Chess
by William Jones (1746-1794)
because today is International Chess Day

Of armies on the chequer’d field array’d,
And guiltless war in pleasing form display’d;
When two bold kings contend with vain alarms,
In ivory this, and that in ebon arms;
Sing, sportive maids, that haunt the sacred hill
Of Pindus, and the fam’d Pierian rill.
Thou, joy of all below, and all above,
Mild Venus, queen of laughter, queen of love;
Leave thy bright island, where on many a rose
And many a pink thy blooming train repose:
Assist me, goddess! since a lovely pair
Command my song, like thee devinely fair.
Near yon cool stream, whose living waters play,
And rise translucent in the solar ray;
Beneath the covert of a fragrant bower,
Where spring’s nymphs reclin’d in calm retreat,
And envying blossoms crouded round their seat;
Here Delia was enthron’d, and by her side
The sweet Sirena, both in beauty’s pride:
Thus shine two roses, fresh with early bloom,
That from their native stalk dispense perfume;
Their leaves unfolding to the dawning day
Gems of the glowing mead, and eyes of May.
A band of youths and damsels sat around,
Their flowing locks with braided myrtle bound;
Agatis, in the graceful dance admir’d,
And gentle Thyrsis, by the muse inspir’d;
With Sylvia, fairest of the mirthful train;
And Daphnis, doom’d to love, yet love in vain.
Now, whilst a purer blush o’erspreads her cheeks,
With soothing accents thus Sirena speaks:
“The meads and lawns are ting’d with beamy light,
And wakeful larks begin their vocal flight;
Whilst on each bank the dewdrops sweetly smile;
What sport, my Delia, shall the hours beguile?
Whall heavenly notes, prolong’d with various art,
Charm the fond ear, and warm the rapturous heart?
At distance shall we view the sylvan chace?
Or catch with silken lines the finny race?”
Then Delia thus: “Or rather, since we meet
By chance assembled in this cool retreat,
In artful contest let our warlike train
Move well-directed o’er the field preside:
No prize we need, our ardour to inflame;
We fight with pleasure, if we fight for fame.”
The nymph consents: the maids and youths prepare
To view the combat, and the sport to share:
But Daphnis most approv’d the bold design,
Whom Love instructed, and the tuneful Nine.
He rose, and on the cedar table plac’d
A polish’d board, with differing colours grac’d;
Squares eight times eight in equal order lie;
These bright as snow, those dark with sable dye;
Like the broad target by the tortoise born,
Or like the hide by spotted panthers worn.
Then from a chest, with harmless heroes stor’d,
O’er the smooth plain two well-wrought hosts he pour’d;
The champions burn’d their rivals to assail,
Twice eight in black, twice eight in milkwhite mail;
In shape and station different, as in name,
Their motions various, not their power the same.
Say, muse! (for Jove has nought from thee conceal’d)
Who form’d the legions on the level field?
High in the midst the reverend kings appear,
And o’er the rest their pearly scepters rear:
One solemn step, majestically slow,
They gravely move, and shun the dangerous foe;
If e’er they call, the watchful subjects spring,
And die with rapture if they save their king;
On him the glory of the day depends,
He once imprison’d, all the conflict ends.
The queens exulting near their consorts stand;
Each bears a deadly falchion in her hand;
Now here, now there, they bound with furious pride,
And thin the trmbling ranks from side to side;
Swift as Camilla flying o’er the main,
Or lightly skimming o’er the dewy plain:
Fierce as they seem, some bold Plebeian spear
May pierce their shield, or stop their full career.
The valiant guards, their minds on havock bent,
Fill the next squares, and watch the royal tent;
Tho’ weak their spears, tho’ dwarfish be their height,
Compact they move, the bulwark of the fight,
To right and left the martial wings display
Their shining arms, and stand in close array.
Behold, four archers, eager to advance,
Send the light reed, and rush with sidelong glance;
Through angles ever they assault the foes,
True to the colour, which at first they chose.
Then four bold knights for courage-fam’d and speed,
Each knight exalted on a prancing steed:
Their arching course no vulgar limit knows,
Tranverse they leap, and aim insidious blows:
Nor friends, nor foes, their rapid force restrain,
By on quick bound two changing squares they gain;
From varing hues renew the fierce attack,
And rush from black to white, from white to black.
Four solemn elephants the sides defend;
Benearth the load of ponderous towers they bend:
In on unalter’d line they tempt the fight;
Now crush the left, and now o’erwhelm the right.
Bright in the front the dauntless soldiers raise
Their polish’d spears; their steely helmets blaze:
Prepar’d they stand the daring foe to strike,
Direct their progress, but their wounds oblique.
Now swell th’ embattled troups with hostile rage,
And clang their shields, impatient to engage;
When Daphnis thus: A varied plain behold,
Where fairy kings their mimick tents unfold,
As Oberon, and Mab, his wayward queen,
Lead forth their armies on the daisied green.
No mortal hand the wond’rous sport contriv’d,
By gods invents, and from gods deriv’d;
From them the British nymphs receiv’d the game,
And play ech morn beneath the crystal Thame;
Hear then the tale, which they to Colin sung,
As idling o’er the lucid wave he hung.
A lovely dryad rang’d the Thracian wild,
Her air enchanting, and her aspect mild:
To chase the bounding hart was all her joy,
Averse from Hymen, and the Cyprian boy;
O’er hills an valleys was her beauty fam’d,
And fair Caissa was the damsel nam’d.
Mars saw the maid; with deep surprize he gaz’d,
Admir’d her shape, and every gesture prais’d:
His golden bow the child of Venus bent,
And through his breast a piecing arrow sent.
The reed was hope; the feathers, keen desire;
The point, her eyes; the barbs, ethereal fire.
Soon to the nymph he pour’d his tender strain;
The haughtly dryad scorn’d his amorous pain:
He told his woes, where’er the maid he found,
And still he press’d, yet still Caissa frown’d;
But ev’n her frowns (ah, what might smiles have done!)
Fir’d all his soul, and all his senses won.
He left his car, by raging tigers drawn,
And lonely wander’d o’er the dusky lawn;
Then lay desponding near a murmuring stream,
And fair Caissa was his plaintive theme.
A naiad heard him from her mossy bed,
And through the crystal rais’d her placid head;
Then mildly spake: “O thou, whom love inspires,
Thy tears will nourish, not allay thy fires.
The smiling blossoms drink the pearly dew;
And ripening fruit the feather’d race pursue;
The scaly shoals devour the silken weeds;
Love on our sighs, and on our sorrow feeds.
Then weep no more; but, ere thou canst obtain
Balm to thy wounds, and solace to thy pain,
With gentle art thy martial look beguile;
Be mild, and teach thy rugged brow to smile.
Canst thou no play, no soothing game devise;
To make thee lovely in the damsel’s eyes?
So may thy prayers assuage the scornful dame,
And ev’n Caissa own a mutual frame.”
“Kind nymph,” said Mars, “thy counsel I approve;
Art, only art, her ruthless breast can move.
but when? or how? They dark discourse explain:
So may thy stream ne’er swell with gushing rain;
So may thy waves in one pure current flow,
And flowers eternal on thy border blow!”
To whom the maid replied with smiling mien:
“Above the palace of the Paphian queen
Love’s brother dwells, a boy of graceful port,
By gods nam’d Euphron, and by mortals Sport:
Seek him; to faithful ears unfold thy grief,
And hope, ere morn return, a sweet relief.
His temple hangs below the azure skies;
Seest thou yon argent cloud? ’Tis there it lies.”
This said, she sunk beneath the liquid plain,
And sought the mansion of her blue-hair’d train.
Meantime the god, elate with heart-felt joy,
Had reach’d the temple of the sportful boy;
He told Caissa’s charms, his kindled fire,
The naiad’s counsel, and his warm desire.
“Be swift, he added, give my passion aid;
A god requests.” — He spake, and Sport obey’d.
He fram’d a tablet of celestial mold,
Inlay’d with squares of silver and of gold;
Then of two metals form’d the warlike band,
That here compact in show of battle stand;
He taught the rules that guide the pensive game,
And call’d it Cassa from the dryad’s name:
(Whence Albion’s sons, who most its praise confess,
Approv’d the play, and nam’d it thoughtful Chess.)
The god delighted thank’d indulgent Sport;
Then grasp’d the board, and left his airy court.
With radiant feet he pierc’d the clouds; nor stay’d,
Till in the woods he saw the beauteous maid:
Tir’d with the chase the damsel set reclin’d,
Her girdle loose, her bosom unconfin’d.
He took the figure of a wanton faun,
And stood before her on the flowery lawn;
Then show’d his tablet: pleas’d the nymph survey’d
The lifeless troops in glittering ranks display’d;
She ask’d the wily sylvan to explain
The various motions of the splendid train;
With eager heart she caught the winning lore,
And thought ev’n Mars less hateful than before;
“What spell,” said she, “deceiv’d my careless mind?
The god was fair, and I was most unkind.”
She spoke, and saw the changing faun assume
A milder aspect, and a fairer bloom;
His wreathing horns, that from his temples grew,
Flow’d down in curls of bright celestial hue;
The dappled hairs, that veil’d his loveless face,
Blaz’d into beams, and show’d a heavenly grace;
The shaggy hide, that mantled o’er his breast,
Was soften’d to a smooth transparent vest,
That through its folds his vigorous bosom show’d,
And nervous limbs, where youthful ardour glow’d:
(Had Venus view’d him in those blooming charms,
Not Vulcan’s net had forc’d her from his arms.)
With goatlike feet no more he mark’d the ground,
But braided flowers his silken sandals bound.
the dryad blush’d; and, as he press’d her, smil’d,
Whilst all his cares one tender glance beguil’d.
He ends: To arms, the maids and striplings cry;
To arms, the groves and sounding vales reply.
Sirena led to war the swarthy crew,
And Delia those that bore the lily’s hue.
Who first, O muse, began the bold attack;
The white refulgent, or the mournful black?
Fair Delia first, as favoring lots ordain,
Moves her pale legions tow’rd the sable train:
From thought to thought her lively fancy flies,
Whilst o’er the board she darts her sparkling eyes.
At length the warrior moves with haughty strides;
Who from the plain the snowy king divides:
With equal haste his swarthy rival bounds;
His quiver rattles, and his buckler sounds:
Ah! hapless youths, with fatal warmth you burn;
Laws, ever fix’d, forbid you to return.
then from the wing a short-liv’d spearman flies,
Unsafely bold, and see! he dies, he dies:
The dark-brow’d hero, with one vengeful blow
Of life and place deprives his ivory foe.
Now rush both armies o’er the burnish’d field,
Hurl the swift dart, and rend the bursting shield.
Here furious knights on fiery coursers prance,
but see! the white-rob’d Amazon beholds
Where the dark host its opening van unfolds:
Soon as her eye discerns the hostile maid,
By ebon shield, and ebon helm betray’d;
Seven squares she passed with majestic mien,
And stands triumphant o’er the falling queen.
Perplex’d, and sorrowing at his consort’s fate,
The monarch burn’d with rage, despair, and hate:
Swift from his zone th’ avenging blade he drew,
And, mad with ire, the proud virago slew.
Meanwhile sweet smiling Delia’s wary king
Retir’d from fight behind the circling wing.
Long time the war in equal balance hung;
Till, unforseen, an ivory courser sprung,
And, wildly prancing in an evil hour,
Attack’d at once the monarch and the tower:
Sirena blush’d; for, as the rules requir’d,
Her injur’d sovereign to his tent retir’d;
Whilst her lost castle leaves his threatening height,
And adds new glory to th’ exulting knight.
At this, pale fear oppress’d the drooping maid,
And on her cheek the rose began to fade:
A crystal tear, that stood prepar’d to fall,
She wip’d in silence, and conceal’d from all;
From all but Daphnis; He remark’d her pain,
And saw the weakness of her ebon train;
Then gently spoke: “Let me your loss supply,
And either nobly win, or nobly dir;
Me oft has fortune crown’d with fair success,
And led to triumph in the fields of Chess.”
He said: the willing nymph her place resign’d,
And sat at distance on the bank reclin’d.
Thus when Minerva call’d her chief to arms,
And Troy’s high turret shook with dire alarms,
The Cyprian goddess wounded left the plain,
And Mars engag’d a mightier force in vain.
Strait Daphnis leads his squadron to the field;
(To Delia’s arms ’tis ev’n a joy to yield.)
Each guileful snare, and subtle art he tries,
But finds his heart less powerful than her eyes:
Wisdom and strength superior charms obey;
And beauty, beauty, wins the long-fought day.
By this a hoary chief, on slaughter bent,
Approach’d the gloomy king’s unguarded tent;
Where, late, his consort spread dismay around,
Now her dark corse lies bleeding on the ground.
Hail, happy youth! they glories not unsung
Shall live eternal on the poet’s tongue;
For thou shalt soon receive a splendid change,
And o’er the plain with nobler fury range.
The swarthy leaders saw the storm impend,
And strove in vain their sovereign to defend:
Th’ invader wav’d his silver lance in air,
And flew like lightning to the fatal square;
His limbs dilated in a moment grew
To stately height, and widen’d to the view;
More fierce his look, more lion-like his mien,
Sublime he mov’d, and seem’d a warrior queen.
As when the sage on some unfolding plant
Has caught a wandering fly, or frugal ant,
His hand the microscopic frame applies,
And lo! a bright hair’d monster meets his eyes;
He sees new plumes in slender cases roll’d;
Here stain’d with azure, there bedropp’d with gold;
Thus, on the alter’d chief both armies gaze,
And both the kings are fix’d with deep amaze.
The sword, which arm’d the snow-white maid before,
He now assumes, and hurls the spear no more;
The springs indignant on the dark-rob’d band,
And knights and archers feel his deadly hand.
Now flies the monarch of the sable shield,
His legions vanquish’d, o’er the lonely field:
So when the morn, by rosy coursers drawn,
With pearls and rubies sows the verdant lawn,
Whilst each pale star from heaven’s blue vault retires,
Still Venus gleams, and last of all expires.
He hears, where’er he moves, the dreadful sound;
Check the deep vales, and Check the woods rebound.
No place remains: he sees the certain fate,
And yields his throne to ruin, and Checkmate.
A brighter blush o’erspreads the damsel’s cheeks,
And mildly thus the conquer’d stripling speaks:
“A double triumph, Delia, hast thou won,
By Mars protected, and by Venus’ son;
The first with conquest crowns thy matchless art,
The second points those eyes at Daphnis’ heart.”
She smil’d; the nymphs and amorous youths arise,
And own that beauty gain’d the nobler prize.
Low in their chest the mimic troops were lay’d,
And peaceful slept the sable hero’s shade.

Views: 51

Poem of the day

Sommernacht
by Gottfried Keller (1819-1890)

Es wallt das Korn weit in die Runde,
Und wie ein Meer dehnt es sich aus;
Doch liegt auf seinem stillen Grunde
Nicht Seegewürm noch andrer Graus:
Da träumen Blumen nur von Kränzen
Und trinken der Gestirne Schein.
O goldnes Meer, dein friedlich Glänzen
Saugt meine Seele gierig ein!

In meiner Heimat grünen Talen,
Da herrscht ein alter schöner Brauch;
Wann hell die Sommersterne strahlen,
Der Glühwurm schimmert durch den Strauch:
Dann geht ein Flüstern und ein Winken,
Das sich dem Ährenfelde naht,
Da geht ein nächtlich Silberblinken
Von Sicheln durch die goldne Saat.

Das sind die Bursche, jung und wacker,
Die sammeln sich im Feld zuhauf
Und suchen den gereiften Acker
Der Witwe oder Waise auf,
Die keines Vaters, keiner Brüder
Und keines Knechtes Hilfe weiß –
Ihr schneiden sie den Segen nieder,
Die reinste Lust ziert ihren Fleiß.

Schon sind die Garben fest gebunden
Und schön in einen Kranz gebracht;
Wie lieblich flohn die stillen Stunden,
Es war ein Spiel in kühler Nacht!
Nun wird geschwärmt und hell gesungen
Im Garbenkreis, bis Morgenduft
Die nimmermüden, braunen Jungen
Zur eignen schweren Arbeit ruft.

Views: 34